Wizard Undercover ra-4, page 33
part #4 of Rogue agent Series
She was staring at the wedding party’s first two carriages, their horses finally tamed, and at Hartwig and Erminium and Leopold Gertz and Ludwig and Ratafia, standing on the rock-strewn road clutching at each other in desperate relief.
“Well, they seem fine, Saint Snodgrass be praised,” she said, with only the faintest tremor in her voice. Then she turned, revealing her eyes stark with what might have been. Nearly was. “Well done, you two. Oh, bloody well done.”
Their coachman was seeing to the horses, and from the hubbub of the other guests, a babbling of so many different tongues the party sounded like a debate at the United Magical Nations, it seemed that not a soul was paying them any attention.
“It was wizardry, wasn’t it?” she added, her voice safely lowered. “This time, it was wizardry.”
Bibbie sat up. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Melissande’s lips trembled, then firmed. “Well, then. At least now we know for sure.” Her chin lifted. “And do we know who’s behind it?”
Gerald shook his head, feeling his elation collapse. “Sorry.”
“The hexes on those rocks felt the same as the thaumaturgics on the barge,” Bibbie said, sounding grim. “I think.”
And the same as the deadly incants at Abel Bestwick’s lodging, the blood magic hex too, but he didn’t want to say that. Not until he’d had a chance to talk to Sir Alec. Call him old-fashioned, accuse him of treating them like gels, he didn’t care. Bibbie and Melissande had been frightened enough for one day.
Instead of answering, he helped Bibbie to her feet.
“Well, even if they’re not the same,” said Melissande, “we can be sure of one more thing.” She nodded at Hartwig and Ludwig and the rest, still embracing and exclaiming and consoling each other. Norbert of Harenstein had joined them, and Ratafia was clutched to his breast in an extravagance of tearful relief. “Whoever’s behind this, they can’t be here. We were all of us nearly killed. So the culprit must be elsewhere. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Bibbie. “Algernon?”
Gerald hesitated. He wanted to say yes, if only to calm their fears, but there were too many blank spaces. The Lanruvians. He still found it hard to fathom that they’d tried to help avert the bloodshed. And there remained that question mark raised over Norberts’ minions…
The thought turned him towards Harenstein’s carriage. Volker and Dermit stood in the road beside it, their faces pale with shock.
“Algernon?” Bibbie prompted again.
He looked at her. “It does seem unlikely.”
“Unlikely?” Melissande snorted. “That’ll do. So if you’ll excuse me? I’m putting a stop to this.”
What? “Wait-Melissande-”
“No, Gerald,” she said sharply. “It’s over. Yes, I know, you saved us all. This time. But what about next time? Now both of you, stay here.”
And before he could restrain her, she’d leapt down from their carriage and was marching towards the shattered bridge, and Hartwig.
“Melissande, my dear!” cried Hartwig, his voice shaking. His face was chalky pale, his eyes wet. “My dear, are you unharmed?”
He was a grabby old goat but she hugged him anyway. “Yes, Twiggy, I’m fine. You?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, blustering. Defying her to notice that he’d just been scared out of his wits. “Of course. I’m the Crown Prince of Splotze, m’dear. Takes more than a few stray pebbles to unseat me!”
Neatly extricating herself from his fervent clasp, to her surprise she found herself being clutched by Norbert of Harenstein.
“It was a close thing, Millicent,” he declared fervently. “A damned close thing!”
Good lord, the marquis was shaking. She patted his back. “But we’re all safe, Norbert, and that’s what counts.” After a second strategical extrication, she looked to Borovnik’s Dowager Queen. “Your Majesty?”
A splinter of carriage-wood or boulder had struck Erminium’s right cheek. A swollen bruise was forming, and there was blood on her parchment skin and dust all over her tawny silk dress. But her head was high and her spine was straight and there was as much anger as fear in her eyes.
“Disgraceful,” she declared. “Disgraceful. Hartwig, this is no way to treat your guests! Have you never heard of hillside maintenance?”
Happy to be ignored, leaving Hartwig to defend his honour, Melissande joined Ratafia and Ludwig, who looked as though they wanted nothing more than to remain in each other’s consoling arms forever.
“You must’ve been so frightened, both of you,” she said, and took one of Ratafia’s cold little hands in hers. “But you’re not hurt, praise Saint Snodgrass. And just think of the story you’ll have to tell your children!”
Though she was tear-stained, Ratafia smiled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course she is,” said Ludwig, and kissed Ratafia’s dusty cheek. “I shall put them to bed each night with tales of their sweet mother’s courage.”
“Oh, Luddie… ”
Tactfully turning aside from the fresh billing and cooing, which surely they’d earned, Melissande saw that all the wedding tour guests had clambered out of their carriages and were picking their way along the road to join them. Even the Lanruvians were approaching, their disconcerting detachment unshaken. Spying Gerald and Bibbie, inching closer, she started to shake her head, warning them off, but an indignant cry from Erminium distracted her.
“No, Hartwig, I demand that you make arrangements for us to go back to Grande Splotze tonight!”
“Oh, Mama, that’s not necessary,” Ratafia protested. “This was an unfortunate mishap, that’s all. Please, don’t make us go back!”
“There, you see?” said Hartwig. “Such a brave gel, she’ll make Splotze a wonderful Crown Princess! Now Erminium, I know we’ve had a fright but we can’t let this little mishap spoil the rest of the wedding tour. All those people, waiting to see Ludwig and Ratafia. Besides, we don’t want to give anyone an excuse to say Borovnik’s easily rattled, do we?”
Erminium’s fear for her daughter had drained the colour from her cheeks. Now it flooded back. “Do not insult me, Hartwig! The courage of Borovnik has never been in doubt!” Elbowing Ludwig aside, she took her daughter by the shoulders. “Ratafia, are you quite sure?”
“I am, Mama,” said Ratafia. “Hartwig’s right. I owe it to the people of Splotze to keep going. And I warn you, I’ll swim the river if I have to and walk the rest of the way on bare feet. The tour must continue.”
Melissande ground her teeth. Bugger. Just when she’d thought she’d get what she wanted without having to lift a finger.
Curse you, Ratafia. Of all the times to be brave and stalwart and princessly.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t!” she announced. “I think it’s madness to go on. I think we should all return to Grande Splotze at once.”
“What’s that?” said Hartwig, staring. “But Melissande, you said you were fine!”
She pressed an artfully shaking hand to her face. “I lied, Twiggy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be such a ninny but I’m afraid I can’t help it. I’m afraid I’m afraid! Oh, Hartwig. Dear Hartwig. I beg you… I implore you… take us home to Grande Splotze!”
And on a deep breath, she burst into noisy tears and flung herself into Hartwig’s surprised but welcoming arms.
“There, there, Melly,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It’s all right, m’dear. Don’t cry. Of course we’ll go back to the palace, if that’s what you want.”
Oh, lord, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt at the genuine distress in Hartwig’s voice. When Sir Alec finds out I’ve stuck my oar in, he’ll go spare.
Another day, another six hours spent fighting idiots in the Department of Thaumaturgy’s unswept halls of power.
And to think his day was still only half over.
Resisting the urge to bang his head on his desk, Sir Alec initialled the last page of Mawford’s final report on the latest nastiness in West Uphantica. Perhaps now someone other than Ralph would believe him when he said trouble was brewing again.
As he replaced his pen in its holder, someone tapped on the closed office door. “Come,” he said, flipping the file’s folder shut.
Frank took one look at his face and rolled his eyes. “West Uphantica?”
A sigh. “What else?”
“And Gaylord’s being a pillock.”
“He is.”
“You put up with too much shite from that tosser.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got a plan to take care of Ravelard bloody Gaylord,” Frank said, shoving the door closed with his foot. “Want to hear it?”
He kept his lips from twitching, but only just. “No.”
“Fine.” Frank crossed to the desk and held out the steaming mug he’d brought with him. “Then listen to this. And while you’re listening, pour some bloody tea down your throat.”
“I can fetch my own tea.”
“By the looks of you, Ace, you wouldn’t make it to the stairs. Drink.”
So he took Frank’s mug and swallowed, welcoming the warmth and even the sugar. “You were saying?”
“Aylesbury Markham was right,” said Frank, dropping into the visitor’s chair. “The Lanruvians have been getting cosy with the Maneezi.”
The unwelcome news woke his lightly sleeping megrim. “It’s confirmed?”
“Pribble got a message to us through Bisphor in Tarikstan. Had to use word of mouth with a courier.”
How disturbing. “He couldn’t risk regular channels?”
“There’s been an uptick in etheretic monitoring,” Frank said, moodily fingering the half-hearted crease in his trousers. “The Maneezi are bloody nervous, he says.”
“They must be, if they’re risking eavesdropping on our embassy.”
“And he’s seen Lanruvians coming out of their big Research facility,” Frank added. “Which is another bloody worry we don’t need right now.”
Perplexed, Sir Alec sat back in his chair. “It makes no sense. The Maneezi aren’t stupid. Why would they risk everything by getting into bed with the Lanruvians?”
Frank shrugged. “Could be they’re more scared of those pale skinny bastards than they are of sanctions.” His face twisted with derision. “And not without cause. When the political winds blow left to right, the powers that be are toothless and three-quarters blind to boot.”
“Or those pale skinny bastards have something the Maneezi want, so they’re willing to chance giving them a thaumicle extractor in return.” More sharp pain stabbed through his head at the thought of the Lanruvians with access to that kind of equipment. “All right, Mister Dalby. Here’s what we’ll do. First-”
“It’s taken care of,” said Frank, with a swift half-smile. “Field agents on alert, Customs on standby, wizards known for particle thaumaturgics flagged, ditto all PT equipment.”
The pain in his head eased. “Good, Frank. Keep me apprised.”
“Will do. Mind you, Ace, the Maneezi are bound to notice this little flurry of activity. Which means the Lanruvians’ll notice.”
“In which case they might reconsider their ill-considered plans.”
“We can only bloody hope.” Frank rubbed the side of his nose. “Heard anything more from Dunwoody?”
Sir Alec put down the half-emptied mug of tea. “No. Communications with Splotze continue problematical. Sir Ralph’s boffins are calling it ‘the etheretic storm of the century’.”
Frank grunted. “Not having second thoughts about sending him in, are you? Like, maybe it was too soon after that other mucky business?”
“No.”
Frank crossed an ankle over his knee, comfortable as a cat on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “If you are, you should bring him home.”
“I’m not,” he said tightly. “I have every confidence that Mister Dunwoody can resolve this Splotze-Borovnik business efficiently and discreetly.”
“If you say so, Ace.” With another grunt, Frank stood. “Any road. Nice chatting with you. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll show m’self out.”
But before Frank’s fingers touched the door’s handle, it flew open. In the doorway, Ralph’s nephew, looking rather the worse for wear.
Sir Alec nodded. “Thank you, Mister Dalby. I’ll take it from here. Come in, Mister Markham.”
As Frank closed the door behind him, Monk pulled a familiar, bloodstained square of blue carpet from under his coat and tossed it on the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. And I wrecked the damn thing trying.”
Sir Alec folded his hands neatly on top of the West Uphantica file and considered the thaumaturgically inert carpet in silence. Then he sighed.
“These things happen. Sit down, Mister Markham. Before you fall down.”
Grey-faced and hollow-eyed, Monk folded onto the chair Frank had just abandoned. “I really am sorry, sir. It was an accident. I got carried away.”
“As I said,” he replied, in the tone that until now only Frank Dalby had heard-and, even then, very seldom. “What we do is not an exact science.”
Monk dragged shaking fingers through his hair. “Blood magic,” he said, with deep loathing. “I used every decoding hex I could think of. I even invented a new one.” He pulled a face. “I think that might be what killed it. I was going to try putting it back together again, only Reg threatened to poke out my eyeballs so I stopped. Because, y’know, for once I think she really meant it.”
Good for the bird. “Go home, Mister Markham. Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”
Ralph’s nephew stood. Swaying a little on his feet, he stared at the wrapped square of carpet soaked in blood, and ruined blood magic. “Heard from Gerald?”
“No.”
“Me neither. So let’s hope no news is good news.” Another frown. A jerk of his head at the desk. “Anyway. I’m sorry.”
Alone again, Sir Alec dropped the useless piece of carpet into his office rubbish bin. Thought of Abel Bestwick… and in a single explosive sweep of his arm sent the West Uphantica file flying.
“Damn!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Monk reached his jalopy, parked on the street outside the Nettleworth building, he found Reg perched on the bonnet like an oversized hood ornament.
“Well?” the bird said. “How did he take it?”
“Better than I thought he would. What are you doing here, Reg?”
She flapped onto his shoulder. “Making sure that government stooge didn’t turn your guts into his garters. Blimey, sunshine. You look like a walking corpse. Anyone ever tell you natural light is not your friend?”
Buzzing with exhaustion, Monk unwarded the car door, opened it, and slid behind the wheel. “Look, Reg,” he said, as the bird hopped onto the back of the passenger seat. “I don’t need a nursemaid. I’m going straight home and then I’m crawling into bed.”
Reg rattled her tail. “Well, you’re going straight home. But your bed’ll have to stay empty a while longer, sunshine.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Dodsworth’s waiting for you at Chatterly Crescent, all gee’d up about something and raring to go.”
Dodsworth? “Gee’d up about what? Did he say?”
“Oh, yes,” Reg said, looking down her beak at him. “Once I’d let him in through the locked and warded front door, your butler and me had ourselves a lovely chinwag over tea and toast. And he wasn’t the least bit discombobulated to find out I say a bloody sight more than Polly wants a bloody cracker and make sure it’s got no sesame seeds. I’m only holding back the particulars because I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Right. With a sigh, Monk fired up the jalopy and pulled away from the kerb. “Sorry. I’m a bit tired.”
“Yes. Well,” the bird muttered. Then she slapped him with her wing. “Oy. Don’t suppose you thought to ask that manky Sir Alec of yours if he’s heard from our Gerald?”
“I did, and he hasn’t.”
“Bugger,” said Reg. “What’s our boy up to? Didn’t his mother teach him it’s polite to call home?”
Monk winced. A steady drumbeat of pain was booming in his skull. He pulled down his driver’s side window for some fresh air, then nosed the jalopy into the heavy flow of traffic along Kastelan Street.
“I expect he’s a bit busy, Reg. Please. Don’t go on.”
She considered him closely, head tipped to one side. “On second thoughts, maybe I should’ve poked Dodsworth in his unmentionables until he went away. If you go wandering about the place looking like that, Mister Markham, you’ll frighten the horses into hysterics.”
Dodsworth wouldn’t have come to see him if it wasn’t important. “Bugger the horses, Reg. They can take care of themselves.”
His family’s butler was perched on the front steps of the Chatterly Crescent town house. Seeing the jalopy turn in to the driveway, he got up, creakily, and tottered to meet it.
“Master Monk! I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you’d want to know at once,” he said, bending down to peer into the car. “I’ve just had word from-” Dodsworth frowned. “Master Monk, there is a bird on the seat beside you.”
“Ah-yes, I do believe there is,” he said, carefully not looking at Reg. “I found it lying stunned on the side of the road, poor thing. Couldn’t leave it there, could I? Anyway, you were saying?”
“I feel bound to point out, sir, that it is no longer stunned and is in possession of a very long, sharp beak.”
“Is it? I can’t say I noticed. Anyway — ”
Keeping one eye on Reg, Dodsworth managed to collect himself. “Yes, sir. I’ve had word from my friend, the Harenstein embassy’s butler. He’s back at work, but now that useless guffin who filled in for him has succumbed to dropsy and there’s an important supper at the embassy this evening. He wanted to know if I couldn’t see fit to lend him a hand.”
Despite his headache, and his bone-shattering weariness, Monk felt himself start to grin. “Really?”
“Yes, really, sir,” said Dodsworth, with an answering smile. “And seeing as how I know you’re interested in getting in there, and Master Aylesbury’s away on business and your dear parents are off visiting Lord and Lady Patchoo, I thought I could, without compromising my position, answer my friend’s cry for help and take you with me as my assis-”
